


Amore che vieni, amore che vai

by terryh_nyan



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Bardic Performance, Explicit Language, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Makeup Sex, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sexual Tension, Singing, Slow Burn, Snark, Songfic, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24097270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terryh_nyan/pseuds/terryh_nyan
Summary: “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”“…Right, then. See you around, Geralt.”In which Jaskier can't keep his nose out of Geralt's business, despite very much wanting to, and it proves to be a life-saving decision. Post-episode 6.(Or: Jaskier reads Geralt like the library of Alexandria, and sings him to sleep in the process.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 41
Kudos: 447





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand open-ended fics and I'm doing just fine, gonna start up another cuz I've got so much time (not)
> 
> This fic takes place after the breaku- I mean, episode 6.
> 
> It all started with a craving for Jaskier singing Geralt to sleep. I think it's safe to say things escalated.  
> I really wanted Jaskier to sing something meaningful, and who's the greatest real-life bard of the Twentieth century? Fabrizio De André, of course. Except I couldn't find any metric translation of the song I wanted, so I did one myself. I'm pretty pleased with how it came out! You can actually sing it and it flows! Here's a link to the original Italian song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=whzTdy_e2x0 (that's where the title comes from, by the way. It roughly means "love which comes and goes")
> 
> I was also going to make this a one-shot, but these two have so much drama it couldn't be addressed all at once. I hope I don't flake out on the second chapter ~~like I always do~~
> 
> I also hope there's gonna be smut in the next chapter. Your guess is as good as mine.
> 
> My heartfelt thanks to @murasaki_gyps, who's not a fan of the series but still listened to my headcanons and geraskier screams for three days straight. You're the best!
> 
> **TW: mention of miscarriages and children disappearing; extreme levels of sass**

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”_

_“…Right, then. See you around, Geralt.”_

It takes a few tries for Jaskier to find the cemetery.

To be fair, the whole town looks like a massive graveyard. The roads are filled with rundown inns, the houses have turned ruins, and the moonlight paints over the whole bleak picture with an additional layer of shadows. Jaskier doesn’t consider himself a coward, regardless of what his reputation may say (you try looking good in a fight next to Geralt-of-fucking-Rivia), but he feels chilled to the bone and he’s quite sure the cold has nothing to do with it.

As he walks across the ghost town, the echo of his steps tears holes in the otherwise unnaturally silent streets. It’s the only sound he’s heard since stepping foot in the place, along with the occasional caw of a crow. Honestly, he’d appreciate a little ambience. He starts humming to himself, but instantly regrets it: when life leaves the building, all sounds heighten and gain an edge, even his admittedly angelic voice.

This is idiotic. He should know better than to meddle again in Geralt’s affairs. That sourpuss Witcher is probably nailing a sexy, disagreeable ghost to a tree. Nothing to worry about.

Except he does worry.

In front of him, an iron gate stands open. A strange fog seems to hang around it, making it hard to see. Jaskier swallows. “Witcher?”

No response. He takes one more step and calls, louder this time: “Witcher!”

The lack of answer should be reassuring, but somehow isn’t. Jaskier’s heart starts hammering in his chest. “Geralt of Rivia!”

He hears it far before he sees it: a shift in the grass. The crunch of dead leaves in the distance wouldn’t ordinarily be a sound he could grasp, not even with his musical ear. But the silence is so deafening, even the snapping of a twig on the other side of town would make noise. “Geralt?”

A figure emerges in the fog. A silhouette. Jaskier’s heart should pound out of his ribcage, or at least make his legs sprint in the opposite direction, but doesn’t. Instead it sits there, beating to a familiar cadence.

It’s pure instinct telling him this, but Jaskier has learned to listen: the shadow on the other side is not one he should be afraid of.

The voice is feeble, but he hears it clear as day.

“…Jaskier?”

_24 hours earlier_

“Barkeep!”

The man cocks an eyebrow at him, but Jaskier’s vision is too blurry to notice. He just shakes his pint in the general direction of said eyebrow. “Keep the ale coming!”

His request is met with a grunt, but Jaskier pays it no mind. He’s used to being answered with noises instead of words.

He strums a tune on his lute, fingers barely bothered by the ale coursing through his veins. He’d be a poor bard if he couldn’t handle his liquor – although, depending on whom you asked, he already was.

“Hey, Sir Bard,” calls out a barmaid carrying a tray full of plates. “Do the one with the White Wolf and the elves.”

Jaskier offers her a smile that’s more courtesy than feeling. She’s pretty, he thinks distantly. He should be all over that. “Apologies, m’lady,” he slurs instead, weighing his freshly refilled pint in his hand. “That repertoire’s on hold.”

The barmaid clicks her tongue in disappointment. It seems to be the reaction of most of his audience, these days.

If he has any further thoughts on that, he washes them down before they can fully take form. The bottom of the glass is far more inviting.

Contrary to popular belief, Jaskier is not an idiot. He knows perfectly well he’s brooding. He also doesn’t particularly care just about now.

As the golden liquid splashes around the dirty glass, his ears catch bits and pieces of conversation. Old habits are hard to kill, and when he hears the word “Witcher”, his attention drifts to the voice that said it, forgetting all other sound.

“Figures… White-haired bastard… Fled with my coin… Should’ve known he couldn’t be trusted…”

Jaskier’s ears perk up. Against all will, his body turns around in his chair, towards a pair of burly-looking strangers. One of them wears a priest’s tunic.

“Excuse me,” he musters, keeping his slur admirably in check. The eyes that turn to him appear to be less than benevolent, so he adds, after a brief and awkward pause, “ _good men._ I couldn’t help but overhear. What were you saying about a Witcher?”

Surprisingly, it’s the priest who stares him down. “What’s it to you, bard?”

The other man considers him for a long time, before finally shouting: “Hey! You’re _that_ bard. The Witcher’s bard.”

Jaskier huffs a bitter laugh. The men don’t seem to get why, and their stares only get angrier. “I am a bard, yes. I occasionally sing about _a_ Witcher. But I’d like to believe I’m mostly known for my other accomplishments, you know? Let’s see, there’s _The Fishmonger’s Daughter, Winter, The…_ ”

Not all men have a taste for music, and the priest currently in front of him shows it by denting the pinewood counter with the butt of his pint. “Shut up. Your friend’s skipped town with the church’s coin two days ago. Scum o’ the Earth, these Witchers, the lot of ‘em.”

The last thing Jaskier wants to do tonight is defend Geralt of Rivia’s honor. He repeats that to himself as his knuckles blanch around the handle of his pint. He repeats it again as his voice betrays him and deadpans, instead, “I thought it was your coin?”

Two pairs of nostrils flare at him. No taste for music _or_ conversation, it seems.

The priest takes a menacing step in his direction. “The church’s coin is my coin. And my church isn’t getting any offerings these days, bard. You know why?” Jaskier never wanted to see this man’s teeth, nor smell his breath, but it’s becoming increasingly clear to him that what he wants matters very little. “Because the whole town’s been cursed. Haunted. Every man, woman and child has either cleared the place or found their grave in it.” He’s speaking very slowly, which only makes his breath linger in front of Jaskier’s nose. The bard is trying very hard not to vomit on the unfriendly stranger’s shoes.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. Why should it matter? Why on Earth would he care what Geralt of Rivia has gotten himself into this time? The Witcher’s made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with him. Never has, as a matter of fact. So why does Jaskier’s stomach twist with foreboding at the thought that he has yet to take care of whatever he’s been hired to do? Why does a part of him whisper insistently in his ears that Geralt would never take anyone’s coin and run? And that, if this priest thinks he did, something must be very, very wrong?

It’s none of his business anymore.

None.

“And where did you point this Witcher to, exactly?”

_now_

A wave of relief crashes over him. He makes for the entrance when, with a jerk, Geralt calls out: “Stop!”

Jaskier does, briefly. He watches with worry as Geralt struggles to get up and seems to fall back to his knees. Almost considers listening to him.

“Stay away!”

Until he says that.

“You _arsehole_ ,” he scoffs, striding towards the graveyard’s gate. “You absolute fuckwad! I come here, all this way, because I hear talk you’ve taken off with some jerkoff priest’s coin after being hired to lift this wretched town’s curse…” his breath is coming in short, angry bursts. “And you have the nerve to pick up right where we left off? You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Jaskier, stay where you are!”

“Like fuck I will!” Jaskier shouts. He’s suddenly lost all terror-induced reverence for the town’s eerie silence. He finds he has no qualms with smashing it to pieces, along with Geralt’s eardrums. “What do you take me for? A lapdog? A scrappy mutt? The great White Wolf barks at me to stay put and I wag my tail and do it? Maybe roll over while I’m at it?” The bard shakes his head, taking another step forward. And another, and another. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, with a mirthless laugh. “Just, wow.”

“Jaskier!”

“And you know what? You can’t even stand, so you should thank Melitele that, despite every horrible thing you’ve said to me, I’m here!”

“Jaskier, please!”

That stops him in his tracks. Geralt’s voice has grown a desperate edge and it’s finally, finally enough to make him listen.

Only it’s too late.

Once again, Jaskier hears it before he sees it. It’s a whooshing sound behind his shoulders, like a gust of wind, only the trees are all very still. He whirls around, stretching a hand reflexively; it bounces back against an invisible wall, crackling with static.

Geralt hangs his head and punches the dirt under him.

“Shit.”

_72 hours earlier_

When a priest hires him to lift a curse, Geralt thinks nothing of it.

Apart from monsters, curses are half his salary. No feeling goes around as much as spite, and spiteful words in the wrong mouth can lead to devastating consequences.

What’s strange is the information he’s given after.

It all started with a series of mysterious miscarriages. It wasn’t uncommon for women not to carry to term, especially in the less than luxurious circumstances of their farming town. First, the ironmaster’s wife had woken up in a puddle of blood, screaming from the pain. Then, it had been the eldest of the Weaver Sisters. Both women were on with the years, so it didn’t strike anyone as odd, even though the two miscarriages had occurred over the same day.

But then, it started to spread. Soon, girls as young as eighteen were bending over their bellies and crying.

It got to the point that expecting women just passing through town wouldn’t make it to the other side without losing their child or going into early labour, and even those who managed to give birth only ended up holding a stillborn baby.

Then, the actual children started to disappear.

“Did anyone suspicious come here before all this?” Geralt says, staring unblinkingly at the priest. It would serve no one if he were to lie to him, so he’s going to make sure he doesn’t.

The priest, however, has no intention to lie. “There was someone. A mage.”

Before Geralt has a chance to ask more, the priest continues: “Wait. What I told you was just the beginning, Witcher. That was before the ghosts came.”

Geralt is quiet after that. He listens to the rest of the story: how more and more children went missing, often in close proximity of the church. How the townspeople took only what they could carry and left, one by one. How the ones who were too slow to leave spiraled into insanity. How chaos quickly filled the empty spaces, in the form of thieves pilfering the abandoned houses and criminals on the run seeking shelter in the ruins, only to be found as twisted corpses by anyone who dared to venture back there. How the town even decayed to the point of having ruins in the span of a few short months, almost like a living being with a blood disease.

And all through this, the voices.

“You couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Could barely hear your own thoughts. Every day, at every hour…”

Geralt asks for five-hundred ducats upfront. The priest doesn’t bat an eye.

He leaves Roach at the inn and sets out on foot: the town’s only a couple of hours away, and he sees no reason to bring his horse anywhere near it. If the journey’s too quiet for his tastes, Geralt works very hard not to think about it.

According to the priest, the church is where the children disappeared. He’ll start there.

He flings the iron gates open, and crosses over into the graveyard.

_now_

“What’s that?” Jaskier’s fingers hover over the invisible barrier, studying it. It’s only a pinprick if he touches it lightly, but if he presses any stronger, electricity starts coursing through his body. He snaps his hand back as if burned.

“It’s the curse.”

Geralt’s hoarse voice breaks over a cough, and Jaskier immediately forgets all about the barrier. He scrambles forward and kneels by his side: he’s close enough now that the fog doesn’t shield Geralt’s face from him anymore, and Jaskier feels his heart sink at what he sees. Over the years, the Witcher has looked many things: cranky, sleep-deprived, wounded, enraged.

Never has he looked like this.

“Oh, you stupid Witcher,” Jaskier murmurs, taking in the dark circles around his eyes and the cracked state of his lips. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

He fumbles through his bag for a flask of water; Geralt almost rips it out of his hands, drinking avidly and choking several times in the process.

Of course, the first words out of his mouth as he steadies are: “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Jaskier badly wants to punch him.

“Sure. And then, you would’ve died,” Jaskier bites back, stressing the last word dramatically, channeling months of sass into his voice. “If anyone here deserves to be chided, it’s you. _You_ clearly should’ve planned this better, but you don’t hear me being a cock about it, do you?”

The thought to say yes distinctly crosses Geralt’s mind, Jaskier can tell by the way his eyes rest on him and his mouth opens soundlessly; he’s about to give him another, lengthy piece of his mind when the Witcher doubles over and clutches his forehead.

Jaskier decides he’s getting off this rollercoaster of _worried-pissed-worried-pissed_. Looking cool next to Geralt of Rivia might be close to impossible, but being the bigger man is definitely within his reach. “Okay, let’s pause this.” He hates how transparently concerned his voice is. “Geralt, what’s wrong with you?”

Geralt grits his teeth, trying to stand up and failing, again. Without the bard’s hands steadying him at his shoulders, he would’ve fallen over like a sack of potatoes. “You’ll see. You’ll _hear_.” He looks up at Jaskier with obvious effort and whispers: “You really shouldn’t have come here.”

This time, Jaskier sees it for what it is: there’s pain in the Witcher’s yellow eyes, and worry, and a powerlessness so heartbreaking the bard has to catch his breath, because that’s one look he’s never seen Geralt wear for him. _To_ him.

It occurs to him that maybe he’s never seen it because he’s never been both in mortal danger _and_ conscious enough to notice. His mind travels back to all those years ago, at the djinn’s affair: how Geralt had kept his back turned on him the entire time he was dragging him to doctors and mayors and mages; how the Witcher wouldn’t let him catch his eyes.

It’s not enough, however. Jaskier didn’t need to see it to know Geralt had always kept an eye out for him; he just assumed, after their last encounter, that it had been a tremendous burden on him, not worth it for whatever else they shared.

He doesn’t look burdened now. He looks desperate, and part of Jaskier finds it irritating beyond belief.

“Right, then. Let’s get you somewhere less outdoorsy, yes?”

They can’t get out of the graveyard, but there’s an abandoned church within the bounds, not too far from where they are. Geralt grunts as Jaskier throws one of the Witcher’s arms around his shoulders, buckles a few moments under the weight, and then starts walking. He takes extra care to keep his step as steady as possible: for all his muscle, Geralt is looking paper-thin right now, and Jaskier fears even the simplest fall would rip him apart.

So he doesn’t let him fall.

After laying the Witcher against the wall in a secluded corner of the church, he asks for the gist of it from Geralt – which, of course, is like prying an oyster open with his fingernails. When the bard calls him ‘stingy with the details’, he means it in every way: only Geralt of Rivia could sum up a curse which turned a whole town into an empty shell with the words _kills the children, drives the adults mad._ He has to prod further to find out it causes you to hear voices, which explains why Geralt keeps clutching his head and ears.

“Gods, you’re a block of ice,” Jaskier comments, brushing his thumb against Geralt’s temple. “How long have you been agonizing out there?”

Geralt seems to find a moment of relief in the warmth of his skin: his muscles relax just enough that the creases on his forehead smooth.

“Hang on, I’ll get a fire going.”

He starts collecting twigs and piece of wood from the rundown church. The ceilings are high, arches stretching far higher than he’d expected from a small-town building, almost like a miniature cathedral. Through the holes in the walls, moonlight filters in silvery rays across the stone floor.

Geralt pays him little mind. Sometimes, a golden eye will peer curiously through the darkness, but mostly he seems too preoccupied with whatever is going on inside his brain. _Voices_ , he said. Jaskier’s going to need a little more information than that.

“You can’t hear them?” the Witcher grimaces, struggling to keep still. Soon, Jaskier has turned the small heap of wood and dead leaves into a bright, warm fire.

Jaskier has been hearing something, since stepping foot in the cemetery, but he wouldn’t call it ‘voices’ exactly. “It’s more like whispers. A constant, childlike stream of whispers. Giggles, sometimes. Not exactly pleasant, but a far cry from what you’re experiencing, if I had to guess.”

Geralt doesn’t enlighten him as to what that is. Jaskier sighs, and plops down by his side. “Lie down,” he instructs, and when the Witcher looks about to protest, he cuts him off: “Geralt of Rivia, I swear on the Eternal Fire that if your body is not horizontal in the next ten seconds, I will make those screams in your head feel like a ballad.” That, at least, seems to shock him into compliance.

Jaskier drapes his traveling cloak over Geralt’s body. That, the fire, and the bard’s own body heat seem to bring some color back to his cheeks.

“Have you been like this for the past three days?”

Geralt manages a small nod. Gods, he’s seen him weakened, but never like this.

“What do they say?” Jaskier asks, trying to make sense of the situation. “The voices?”

No reply comes his way. _Figures_ , Jaskier scoffs in his mind. _Like he’d ever share what’s going on inside that head of his. Like he’d ever do that with_ me _._

Without thinking, he starts humming a tune. It’s one of his oldest songs, and one he’s taken to singing regularly since his repertoire was cut short. Not that Geralt had taken the time to say, after lashing into him, _Oh, and I retain all of the rights to my adventures._ (Jaskier had gotten used to thinking of them as _their_ adventures, but reality can be a nasty broad indeed.)

No, even though Geralt hadn’t invoked the law of publishing rights, the songs that had given the bard his greatest fame now felt wrong on Jaskier’s tongue. Like he would walk out of a twenty-year friendship without a scratch just because he could still make money off of it. When Geralt had roared at him to get out of his life, for good, Jaskier had complied.

He realizes he’s doing something that typically annoys Geralt when he’s in peak physical condition, let alone suffering a curse based on sound, and stops humming with a pang of guilt. The slight relaxation that had taken over Geralt’s body evaporates, leaving tense muscles in its wake. “Geralt?” he murmurs, passing a hand over his forehead and stroking his hairline almost by reflex.

“Nghh,” Geralt groans, gritting his teeth, a gloved fist clenched on the ground.

Jaskier doesn’t know how to make him better, and it breaks him. He does what he would to any ordinary human in pain: he keeps stroking Geralt’s hair and hopes it soothes him. He would sing to him, if he thought Geralt would find any comfort in it, but he still remembers the pie jab.

After a while, though, he starts humming again, slipping into the habit without realizing it, and that’s when he notices the river of whispers inside his own head slow and quiet down. It’s so imperceptible he almost misses it, except that, at the same time, Geralt’s breathing evens ever so slightly.

Following his hunch, Jaskier starts singing, soft and low. His voice echoes against the walls of the church, resonating through the silence of the night.

The Witcher looks up at him, catlike eyes shining in the darkness. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d say Geralt looks positively entranced.

He lets the song trail off, and the confirmation to his theories comes in the form of Geralt’s face contorting in a grimace as soon as the silence fills the empty space left by the bard’s voice.

 _The music calms them_ , he realizes finally.

Jaskier wants to start singing again immediately. And yet, something makes him pause.

He watches as Geralt twists and turns in his arms, and gives himself ten seconds to indulge in his bitter experiment. He has gone on for years interpreting Geralt’s cues, and until recently thought he’d done a pretty decent job of it. Now, the Witcher has had the nerve to paint all his attempts as poor, misguided, and unwelcome. So Jaskier isn’t going to bend that easily, not this time.

He needs to hear Geralt say it. If the Witcher wants something, anything from him, he needs to learn to use his words.

And, surprisingly, Geralt does. Jaskier is on the verge of giving up, lips parting to let the song through anyway, when the Witcher looks up at him again with impossibly bright eyes and pleads: “Jaskier. Don’t stop.”

Jaskier feels his heart skip a beat.

As soon as the words are out of Geralt’s mouth, the bard’s voice fills the air again, more confident this time. The Witcher instantly relaxes against him, groaning with relief.

After a while, Jaskier reaches for his lute, settling it on his other side. Luckily, Geralt’s head is resting on his right thigh, leaving him plenty of room to strum.

It works even better this way: Geralt sighs, letting his whole body go limp, and the tension in his forehead disappears completely.

Playing also gives him leave to talk without interrupting the music, which he takes advantage of immediately. “Tell me again about the curse. Don’t leave anything out this time.”

Reluctantly, Geralt does. He tells Jaskier about the mage, the miscarriages, the disappearances, and it seems to dawn on them both at the same time.

“They want lullabies,” Jaskier sighs. “They’re children. Separated from their parents, alone and afraid. Of course.” The bard looks down at Geralt and adds: “That’s why they’re screaming louder to you. They can sense it… that you’re a parent, too.”

“…I am not,” Geralt grumbles, but they both know Jaskier has a point, if only in the most technical sense.

The bard plays a few more notes, then murmurs, unable and unwilling to keep the bite from his voice: “I guess, in a way, this is my fault too, then. Just add it on the pile of shit I’ve shoveled on you over the years, yeah?”

It’s unfair, the flash of obvious pain that shoots through Geralt’s eyes. For all that talk about Witchers not being supposed to have feelings, he seems to be filled with them.

“Jaskier…” he starts, then trails off. The bard waits for him to collect his words, strumming his lute to keep the ghosts at bay. But when the Witcher’s lips remain sealed and his head turns away again, he decides he’s had enough.

With a scoff, Jaskier’s voice lifts again, echoing across the church.

When Geralt wakes again, the pearly-white dawn is starting to seep through the windows.

He must have passed out from exhaustion. The last things he remembers are the voices, guilt, and a song carrying him off to sleep…

“ _All the days wasted chasing the winds…_ ”

He blinks, looking up. With eyes closed and lute in hand, Jaskier is still singing.

“ _Begging our lips for just one more kiss…_ ”

It sounds like a ballad: slow, cadenced, voice and instrument almost alternating.

“ _Any day now, they’ll come back to mind…_ ”

For all the show he used to make of not being able to stand the bard’s songs, Geralt knows the entirety of Jaskier’s repertoire like the back of his hand.

He doesn’t know this one.

“ _My runaway love again I will find…_ ”

The lute’s chords fill in the pauses, letting Jaskier take in lungfuls of air in that effortless, practiced way singers do.

“ _Your eyes shining brightly with colors unknown…_ ”

Geralt doesn’t stir. He’s fully awake now, pleasantly aware of the absence of intrusive voices in his thoughts; and yet he lays perfectly still.

“ _You whisper in my ear the same words of love…_ ”

Sunrise paints a warm light on Jaskier’s features. It softens the edges and gives his hair an orange glow.

“ _Months or years from now, they’ll slip from your mind…_ ”

The bard’s performances are never flat. Annoyingly comedic, when they’re jigs, or theatrically tragic, when they’re love songs. The epics he writes for Geralt are a genre unto itself, but he cannot bring himself to listen seriously, not when he could list all of the ‘artistic liberties’ Jaskier’s taken with the contents, mostly about him.

“ _My newly-found love, away you will fly…_ ”

This one isn’t like any of those. It’s filled with emotion, and yet it never overflows. Each note is calibrated precisely to convey just the right amount, in just the right places, leaving the brim at a spilling point without ever tipping over. He stretches the ‘o’ in _love_ with perfect timing.

“ _Hailing from sunshine or chilly coastlines…_ ” Jaskier continues, and this time his pause is longer. It’s the briefest glance, but Geralt is certain he’s noticed now that he’s no longer sleeping. Nevertheless, he continues.

“ _Lost over November or in summertime…_ ”

His gaze is cold, and soon his eyes fall closed once more.

“ _I have always loved you and never have I…_ ”

There’s a faint crack in his voice, one that would be impossible for anyone to hear but himself. You’d have to know the bard’s singing, really know it, to pick up on it. Geralt might not have been his most appreciative audience, but he was always there.

“ _My love ebbs and flows along with the tide…_ ”

The air carries the notes beautifully. As Jaskier sings the final verses, sunlight dispels the last shadows from the church.

Silence falls once more, but the ghosts’ voices do not follow.

“Rest easy, now,” Jaskier murmurs to no one in particular.

He lays his lute back against the wall, and Geralt finally clears his throat and pulls himself up. “Hey.”

“G’morning,” the bard yawns, tired circles under his eyes.

Geralt feels a pang of guilt. “Have you been singing all night?”

Jaskier nods as he stretches. He looks like a cat, all long limbs and graceful movements.

“You have your talents, I have mine,” he replies, rising to dust himself off. It feels like he’s making a point of not looking Geralt in the eye, but at some point he does turn to him and ask: “The voices all gone?”

There’s the faintest hint of worry in Jaskier’s blue eyes. As Geralt nods, however, it seems to dissipate, and the bard goes about collecting his things. The ashes from the fire have long gone cold.

Geralt doesn’t like the way his guts twist at Jaskier’s silence. It’s unnatural for him to be so quiet.

“That song…” he hears himself asking, as they make their way out of the church. “Is that new?”

Something’s off with Jaskier’s laughter. It’s bitter, insincere. It doesn’t suit him. “There’s no need to make small talk, Witcher. Let us see if the gate’s spell has broken, and we’ll be on our merry way. That is,” he specifies, his voice dropping an octave, “you on yours, and me on mine.”

Geralt should say something. Since the words left his mouth all those months before (‘all the horrible things you’ve said to me,’ as Jaskier had eloquently put it), he’s felt that same, burning need. But, somehow, his voice fails him – or perhaps his nerve.

Jaskier pokes at the empty space between the open doors of the gate and whistles. “Will you look at that? Open sesame.”

At the outskirts of town, they run into a carriage headed for the next town over. It’s where Geralt has left Roach, safely tucked away at the inn’s barn, and where Jaskier has bargained for lodging in exchange for music for a fortnight. They ride back in silence.

Despite being clearly exhausted, Jaskier does not sleep.

“Right then,” the bard says as they cross the inn’s threshold. “Try not to get stuck in any other cemeteries. Or do. None of my business anymore, is it?”

“Jaskier…”

This time, the bard doesn’t wait. He turns his back, climbs the stairs, and disappears on the upper floor.

Geralt can hear the door to his room open and slam. Jaskier’s body hits the bed unceremoniously, and then there’s silence.


	2. (Un)Worthy of Your Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _riding the hyperfixation high_
> 
> yay for rating bump!
> 
> we have songs this time, too. the tavern performance is "unworthy of your love", originally from the musical "assassins" but which has nothing to do with that whatsoever in how it's used in this fic (notably, i have been listening to it obsessively because of ben platt and zoey dutch's cover for "the politician"). link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_9b-_ouae8
> 
> the flashback song is the one jaskier is singing in episode 6.
> 
> my brain has also decided to spring an oc on you all. i have only known her only for 48 hours, but if anything happened to her i would kill everyone in this room and then myself
> 
> thank you for your amazing response last chapter, i hope this second part can tie everything off in a satisfactory manner (including the curse plot)!

_“I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”_

_“And yet… here we are.”_

Geralt sleeps through the day. He still has two nights of rest to catch up on, so he feeds Roach some oatmeal, gives her a good rub, and collapses face-down on the hay bed upstairs. It takes him an uncharacteristically long time to fall asleep, and when he wakes, the sun has sunk below the horizon and his stomach is twisting with hunger.

He takes the hottest bath of his life and heads downstairs, fully intending to eat one of everything and hit the road after that. If his mind keeps wandering back to Jaskier, replaying his words in his head, the cold seeping through his voice, Geralt tries very hard to steer it any other way.

It seems, however, that’s not in the cards tonight.

The inn’s tavern is filled to the brim with travelers headed for the ghost town. _‘To rebuild,’_ he hears a woman say, _‘and to heal.’_ He’s taken a table far off in the corner, beneath the shadow of a beam, away from all conversation, and has a good view of the whole place.

A few notes resonate through the air, drowned out enough that anyone else would miss them – and most of the guests do. Geralt, however, finds his eyes darting towards the sound.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” a familiar voice rises through the noises.

Geralt’s gaze follows it to the source, and lands on Jaskier’s figure standing on a barstool by the counter.

“Thank you,” he says, addressing the crowd. “We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well over the past few days, haven’t we? Susie, you old fox, always with a full pint of ale, who’s dragging you home? Francis and Frances, glad to see you’re with us again tonight, and sorry to say, I still can’t tell you apart.” He gets some typical huffs of annoyance, but also laughter, in much greater measure. Warmth pools in Geralt’s stomach, and he feels the corner of his lips curving upwards. Jaskier always liked having all eyes on him.

“For tonight’s performance, we have a very special guest. A dear friend, an amazing singer, and only the best student in the whole wide world. Give it up for the lovely Azalia!”

He stretches out a hand, and a young-looking woman takes it and climbs up on the stool next to him, giving a curtsy and sitting on the counter with a harp in her lap. Her blonde hair is cut short, like a fairy’s, and her cheeks are flushed with excitement. A gentle smile rests on her lips, full like the rest of her.

After the crowd expresses its approval in a rather loud fashion, Jaskier settles next to her, lute in hand. ~~~~

As the first notes of the song fill the air, the crowd falls silent. It’s a far cry from the reaction Jaskier would get on his first performances – a far cry from the jeering, the whistles, and thrown pieces of bread. Now, Geralt is quite sure that, if anyone were to interrupt, they’d be the ones walking home with bread in their pants.

Jaskier’s voice is quiet, still sore from the night before, but the song echoes beautifully between the walls of the tavern.

The Witcher finds himself unable to look away.

“ _I am nothing,_ ” the bard sings, slowly, the picking expertly at the chords of his lute. “ _You are wind, and water, and sky…_ ”

Geralt vaguely recognizes the story. It’s about two star-crossed lovers on the opposite side of their kingdoms’ alliances: he’s heard versions of it sung in taverns and town squares, when its popularity was peaking several decades before, but never quite like this. He doesn’t need to wonder if this rendition is Jaskier’s own: everything, from the music to the lyrics, has the bard’s name written all over it.

The first stanza ends, and Jaskier’s eyes dart across the crowd, assessing the reactions. It’s by pure chance that they happen to land on Geralt. He’s well-hidden, tucked away in a corner as he prefers, but his golden eyes glinting in the semi-darkness give him away.

He can see the imperceptible way Jaskier’s jaw sets, and it tugs at Geralt’s chest. The bard turns away somewhat disdainfully, strums his lute with more conviction, and rises to his feet on the counter.

“ _I am unworthy of your love_ ,” he sings, offering his outstretched hand to the other bard. “ _Tell me how I can earn your love, set me free…_ ” Azalia takes it, full of grace. “ _How can I turn your love to me?_ ”

When the young bard rises by his side, she takes over the singing. The crowd cheers.

She has the voice of an angel. “ _Take my blood and my body for your love_ ,” she says, singing her heart out to the crowd. “ _Let me feel fire, let me drink poison, tell me to tear my heart in two… if that’s what you want me to do_.” Her eyes lock with Jaskier’s, and it occurs to Geralt that this might not be their first performance together. Their gestures are too well-measured, too synchronized, to be the result of chance.

The song picks up its pace; the bards leap down the counter and onto the floor. They dance between the tables as their voices alternate, the strain clearer now in Jaskier’s, but overshadowed by the power of their overall performance.

Jaskier is, without a doubt, a professional. That may be the only reason that, when he locks eyes with Geralt again, this time deliberately, he doesn’t let his anger seep through his words. It’s such an unusual look on the bard, and a stark enough contrast with the words of love leaving his lips in music, that Geralt feels the confusion paint itself across his face, in the subtle way Witchers’ feelings do. Jaskier sees right through him; Geralt suspects he always has.

The song ends. Applause crashes down on Jaskier and Azalia, and they drink it all in, bowing and thanking profusely.

They’re wearing the same smile, the Witcher muses, feeling one creep across his lips, too.

It’s the smile of kindred spirits.

_3 months earlier_

Geralt stares into a cup of wine, disappointed at how quickly it seems to be emptying.

Less liquor means more lucidity; more lucidity means thinking; and thinking is something he doesn’t particularly feel like doing right now.

“Barkeep,” he beckons, and although his voice is low and as polite as can be, the man still jumps. He scampers back to the cellar and comes back with an entire pitcher.

Wise man.

He can almost hear a crystalline laugh across from him, quipping _Barkeep, bring the Witcher’s pitcher!_ or some equally misguided remark. Instead, there’s only silence; his eyes scan the table out of habit, and it’s strange how seeing the seat across empty seems to put him in an even fouler mood. It’s not like he’s not used to traveling alone – has done for the better part of his life.

He drains half the pitcher in one gulp.

Witchers have a special kind of endurance. For pain, for hardship, and – of course – for alcohol. Geralt isn’t actually capable of getting drunk like humans do, no matter how much he drinks, but if he does down enough wine, he can get a pleasant buzz going. It slows his thoughts and waters them down enough for him to feel as numb as he wants to.

_Has it occurred to you that we’re merely rubbing a salve on a tumor? Not really addressing the root cause of the problem?_

This is insane. He’s been traveling without Jaskier for two weeks – not by far the longest time they’d gone without bumping into each other – and his mind has taken to playing tricks on him, filling in the silences it’s no longer used to.

Geralt has always been a creature of habit. Until a few years back, that meant solitude: getting kicked out of inns and sleeping under the stars. Slaying monsters, going through the motions, a blank mind and a sword in his hand. There was never a reason to look forward to tomorrow, and always more than one reason not to get attached to anything and anyone. Life as humans thought of it was not meant for Witchers: his kind _existed_ , nothing more. Wanting anything else would only end in suffering.

Best not get involved.

 _Except you actually_ do _, all of the time._

When he steps foot in the shop, the apothecary doesn’t recoil at his sight. In fact, he beams up at him. “The White Wolf!”

Geralt’s brow furrows. He’s gotten used to people no longer running away from him on the streets, but being greeted _after_ being recognized? That’s new.

“What can I get ya?” the apothecary grins. Geralt eyes him warily.

“A sleeping draught,” he finally concedes. “Strongest one you have.”

The man behind the counter gets him a dose fit for horses, and Geralt is glad, perhaps for the first time in his life, that his reputation as a Witcher precedes him.

“ _Toss a coin to your Witcher…_ ” the apothecary starts humming as he packs Geralt’s purchases. “ _O Valley of Plenty…_ ”

Geralt tosses a few coins on the counter, mutters a quick word of thanks, and practically runs out the door.

The night is still, not even a hint of breeze to shake out the leaves.

It’s a perfectly clear, starlit night. With sleep slow to come, Geralt gazes up at the endless expanse of black and silver overhead.

“You getting used to the quiet yet, Roach?”

The mare doesn’t offer a reply.

“Yeah, me neither.”

It’s the most curious thing. He’s spent the better part of twenty years trying to ignore Jaskier, refining the art of tuning him out whenever his rambles got out of control, and now the bard’s words seem to be replaying themselves in his mind like a stuck melody.

_Do Witchers ever retire?_

“When they slow and get killed,” Geralt murmurs under his breath. That part of the conversation doesn’t really change, no matter how many times it plays over.

_You must want something after all… this._

No one in their right mind would ask a Witcher what he wants. Witchers aren’t humans; they aren’t _people_. They’re mechanisms, made to rust slowly and be discarded when it finally happens, replaced with newer ones. And mechanisms don’t have wishes.

“Maybe. Would it matter?”

He’s forgotten that, occasionally, over the years, and every time it’s ended in tragedy.

_Well… who knows? Perhaps someone, out there, will want you._

The words sit uncomfortably in his stomach, along with the way Jaskier’s eyes had sparkled, blue and unreadable.

“Like who?”

The bard spewed enough nonsense that one tended to lend less and less weight to his words; it became easy, then, so easy, to miss the important bits, the serious ones. Geralt is nothing short of terrible at reading cues, and he wonders, now, how many he’s missed, from how many people.

_We could head to the coast._

“That’d be nice.”

Sleep doesn’t come at all that night. Geralt groans and rolls around in his bedroll until dawn breaks in the sky, calling that apothecary a lot of names in his mind that would make a sailor blush.

He hadn’t expected the bard to leave.

It makes little sense, and the Witcher knows it. He can hear Jaskier’s voice, loud and dumbfounded, inquiring after the state of his marbles.

He’s said his share of things to Jaskier over the years: called his voice bland and disappointing; criticized his lack of self-preservation; yelled at him to shut up and almost killed him in the process; told him to fuck off, repeatedly. He has no idea why it came as a surprise when he finally did.

He’d come back to their shared room and found it empty, and it had caught him off-guard, because no matter how harsh he was, Jaskier never left. Snapped right back at him, more often than not, gave him a piece of his mind in no uncertain terms. But not this time. Jaskier didn’t say a word to him all the way down the mountain, and that last exchange became their goodbye.

As a Witcher, you aren’t taught to keep people near you: you’re instructed to drive them away, keep it about coin. The few times Geralt had allowed himself to get attached had ended in complete carnage. It’s a meager excuse, and he knows it, but it’s all he has to offer.

Too bad he doesn’t have anyone to offer it to.

By the sixth week, Geralt rationalizes that it’s better this way.

He remembers the surprise when Jaskier had popped two pieces of sweetbread out of his pockets and grinned: _Happy twenty-year anniversary, dear Witcher._

 _…I’ve had Roach for twenty-five,_ he remembers answering, dryly, causing the bard to aim the sweetbread at his head. For the rest of the day he’d sneaked such obvious looks at Jaskier that the bard had asked him if he wished to have his picture taken. It earned him a flick to the forehead hard enough to bruise, but Jaskier had beamed at him nonetheless as they made their way through the forest path.

To Geralt, it had felt like a heartbeat. To Jaskier, it had been a quarter of his life. Better he spends the rest of it by the side of a human, someone who loves music and bad jokes and open sky.

 _Oh, so the_ centenarian _is calling me old now?_

He shakes Jaskier’s voice from his thoughts and heads back into town, a bouquet of ghoul heads dangling from his belt.

The bones rattle in an unpleasant rhythm.

_last night_

When he first hears Jaskier’s voice pierce through the silence of the cemetery, he thinks he’s finally gone mad.

It doesn’t surprise him, though. He is going to die here. It seems only fitting that his mind stays with his single biggest regret.

He’s done worse than yell to someone who didn’t deserve it: he’s killed, made ill-advised wishes, gone about who knows how many things in ways that could have – should have – been better. There’s nothing he can do about that, however: Witchers, for all their powers, cannot turn back time.

What truly tugs at his chest, as Jaskier’s voice echoes again between the graves, is the knowledge that, this time, he could’ve tried to fix it.

Jaskier is looking at him.

He can see him beyond the mist, hovering uncertain on the other side of the gate. And that might very well be another trick, a hallucination, except that this time he can _smell_ him. His scent is tinged with hesitation and a faint whiff of ale, but it is his, there’s no doubt in his mind about that.

Geralt shouts before he can take one more step.

“Stop!”

There’s no time for apologies, no time to indulge the relief that washes over him at the sound of his voice amidst the cacophony of screaming children. There’s only fear, coursing through his veins at near-human speed, because if Jaskier crosses that gate, he’ll be sentenced to death.

Geralt will have sentenced him to death.

Jaskier doesn’t listen. Jaskier never does. He gives him the scolding of his life and ignores each warning, one by one, not a single trace of fear in the way he moves, or talks, or smells. If this is destiny’s idea of a joke, Geralt doesn’t find it funny.

He finds it terrifying.

“ _I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting…_ ”

The voices in Geralt’s head subside, one by one, replaced with Jaskier’s soft words. He can feel Jaskier’s hand carding through his hair, an absent-minded touch that feels so foreign to him. Geralt looks up at him, his face bathed in moonlight, lips moving to a melody the Witcher faintly remembers. He hasn’t slept in two nights, hasn’t eaten, hasn’t had one moment of blessed silence for his frayed mind to mend itself back together; it’s no wonder, then, that when their eyes lock, he hasn’t the strength to pretend.

There are no walls around him now. Only Jaskier.

It’s agony when he stops, the voices rushing right back and with a vengeance, and it’s too much. Too much to bear in his condition, and too much like the past few months, with Jaskier’s presence turning to absence and everything collapsing because of it. Geralt takes one look at Jaskier’s eyes in the darkness and _knows_ that, this time, the bard isn’t going to make himself vulnerable by giving freely.

Geralt doesn’t make him.

_a few hours ago_

When Jaskier stumbles downstairs, to nurse his vocal cords with honeyed tea and pretend he isn’t still fuming internally, he soon finds himself with two small hands covering his eyes.

“Guess who?”

Jaskier nearly jumps from his seat. He’d recognize that voice anywhere.

“Meliria of fucking Oxenfurt, take your hands off my face and give me a hug right this second!”

Jaskier hears her give a hearty laugh before she happily obliges. “How long has it been, _Professor_?” she quips, plopping down in the empty seat next to him. Jaskier rolls his eyes, but the smile on his face doesn’t falter.

“Oh, c’mon. I’m barely two years your senior, and I recall you dropping that one week into class, so don’t go playing pupil now.”

Meliria laughs. “Yeah, well, you weren’t exactly stern. And it just felt odd after spending a whole night singing together on the tables of the Oxenfood.”

“First of many,” Jaskier says, and lifts his teacup as if proposing a toast. He takes in her appearance: her short, bright hair and luminous eyes, and a joyful smile to match. It occurs to him that she hasn’t aged a day.

Really. She hasn’t aged a day.

Meliria huffs at his frown and gestures the barkeep for a cup of wine. “ _Sooo_ … I should probably tell you I didn’t go to boarding school.”

He remembers her disappearing after only a semester, sent to ‘study abroad’ – which, he finds out now, was code for Aretuza. They often talked about her wanting to pursue music and travel, and the impossibility of it all. Meliria couldn’t pick up a butter knife to save her life, and the sole reality of being a woman who travels alone is often enough to make sure you’d have to watch your back every waking moment and beyond, and even then you’d have no guarantee. She was always a free spirit, but also conscious of the danger that came with her dreams. They’d gotten drunk to that, once, in the orchard, off of orange wine stolen from the Rector’s office: _to impossible dreams_ , they had toasted, and that was the first time Jaskier fully realized how stifling academia life could be, and how badly he didn’t want to be a Viscount.

Aretuza had been her blessing. “I could literally turn anyone in this room to dust with a flick of my wrist. It’s so liberating to know that.” Jaskier knows her well enough to read her words in their true light: she’d never harm another soul who wasn’t willing to do her harm in the first place. There’s safety in power, and the bard is glad she’s found enough of that to pursue her impossible dream.

Meliria is peaceful, and full of passion, and wilder than any creature she’s ever met: halfway through the journey to her designated court, she’d jumped off the carriage and never looked back. She has lived as a bard ever since, under the name of Azalia.

“That’s the most beautiful fucking story I’ve ever heard.” Jaskier almost has to blink his tears away. “I would ask for ballad rights, but I don’t suppose they’re up for grabs.”

Meliria downs her cup in one swift gulp. “Damn right they aren’t. It’s my opening song.” Her smile turns playful. “Tell you what: let’s trade permissions. I’ll let you sing my story if you’ll give me enough material for one song about the Wayward Bard and the White Wolf of Rivia.”

She’s always been perceptive, and there’s no way the shift in Jaskier’s mood could go unnoticed.

“Oh, Julian,” she murmurs, making a swift gesture to the barkeep. “You look like you could use a real drink and a good talk.”

One drink becomes two, then three. Jaskier cuts himself off at the point where he knows he’ll be able to perform tonight, and lets the misery of the past few months spill from his lips in its entirety for the first time ever since.

They toast once more, this time to impossible love.

Meliria is a wonderful musician, and Jaskier has no intention of letting that go to waste: she agrees to a duet as easily as breathing, an excited light in her eyes, and they talk some more while they wait for the tavern to fill.

The rest of their conversation is Jaskier trying to bribe her to put a hex on Valdo Marx.

Halfway through the performance, Jaskier spots Geralt. Of course he’s claimed the darkest, furthest corner he could find, which would help conceal his presence if he were making any efforts to mask it by keeping his eyes low.

But he isn’t doing that. Instead, his gaze is fixed on Jaskier, following his every move like way back when, at the infamous betrothal party. He’d probably thought he was being discreet, then, too.

Jaskier feels something hot and raw clutch at his stomach. If Geralt is so intent on watching, he’ll give him something to watch, alright.

He turns away, leaps onto the counter, and gives the performance of a lifetime.

_now_

The applause dies down, and Jaskier feels his eyes travel back to the Witcher’s empty seat.

So that’s it, then.

As Azalia takes over for the night, her angelic voice wrapped around what is possibly the raunchiest jig he’s ever heard, he sets to work about replacing his bloodstream with ale.

Halfway through his pint, he hears: “Nice show.”

Jaskier doesn’t bother lifting his eyes from his glass. “What do you want, Geralt?”

He feels the Witcher shift, somewhat uncomfortably. _Good_ , he thinks. _See what it’s like._

And yet, after a few moments of silence with the Witcher’s gaze on him, the taste on Jaskier’s tongue turns bitter. With his best _I-don’t-give-a-shit_ look, the bard turns to face him.

It’s not like he has anything left to lose.

“There’s the man of the hour!” a raucous voice interrupts them.

Geralt feels a hand land with a heavy _thud_ on his shoulder and briefly considers murder.

“Nice to know you’ve taken care of our little problem.”

People are usually too afraid of him to invade his personal space. The self-preservation tends to lift, sometimes, when alcohol exceeds it.

“…I couldn’t have made it alone,” Geralt settles on, because it’s the truth and because he dreads letting his conversation with Jaskier fizzle out before he can say what he’s come to say.

The drunk priest follows Geralt’s gaze and wraps his other arm around Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier gives him a glare. _Gee, thanks,_ it seems to say, with that sarcastic tone that makes the bard such a challenge to keep alive around angry patrons.

“The town heroes!” the priest shouts, in a far better mood than he was when he hired Geralt – and, the Witcher suspects, when Jaskier exchanged words with him.

“We’ll know who to call next time, eh? If it happens again?”

People touching him tends to get on Geralt’s nerves in the best of times, and now isn’t one of those.

“Keep your cock in your pants and don’t go cursing your mistresses,” Geralt growls, low, against his ear, “and your shitty town will be just fine.”

The man’s arms drop at his sides, as does his grin.

Geralt doesn’t miss the way Jaskier tenses up, eyeing the priest up and down and sending, in a moment of spontaneous truce, a quizzical glance in the Witcher’s direction.

“The mage that came through your town,” he continues, “was researching fertility spells, wasn’t she? Maybe even tried to perform one – not that you’d know, anyway.”

“H-How’d you know it was a she?” the man babbles.

“Not important. What I do know is that magic like that – ill-advised, untested magic – leaves a trace. A magical trace strong enough to be picked up by a human, if one were desperate to, say, keep his post at the church. If one prayed, day and night, that the proofs of his actions be erased from the world.”

Geralt leans in now. His low voice clashes with his smile. “You were the father, weren’t you? In both miscarriages. The ones that started it all. After all, you said it yourself: _couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think._ Turns out,” he exchanges a meaningful glance with Jaskier, now watching intently the unfolding of this conversation. “Only parents, or prospective ones, experienced those side effects. And you, if I’m not mistaken, entered a vow of celibacy when you put those clothes on your back.”

He swipes the man’s glass of ale with a nonchalant gesture, and takes one long sip. “So that’s my professional advice… _Father_. Stick to your vows.”

Silence stretches around them for many, many seconds.

“Sounds about right, then,” Jaskier finally quips, patting the broad man on the back. “Take care, Father. Enjoy that lovely church of yours.”

For one, long second, the priest sends a murderous glare Jaskier’s way. If he ever thinks of acting on it, however, the way his own hair stands up at the back of his necks seems to warn him to reconsider. One perk to being a Witcher is that there are many ways to send a message, and one of them is to make humans remember the primordial instinct of self-protection. A Witcher’s gaze can be like a beast in the night: a sensation, a warning in your blood.

The man scampers away, and Geralt drains the rest of his pint.

Jaskier whistles, long and amused. “Never a dull second with you around, is there?”

For a moment, as their eyes lock, it feels like old times again. But one blink and then it’s gone, Jaskier consciously going back to a stern expression the Witcher has seldom seen him wear.

“So, where were we?” he asks, half-heartedly. “The sooner we get… this,” he continues, gesturing vaguely between them, “whatever it is, out of the way, the sooner you can be rid of me again.”

Jaskier knows he’s laying it on thick. He’s perfectly aware of how bitchy he sounds, and he can tell it’s making Geralt uncomfortable. It’s not just anger: it’s necessity. It’s what he has to do to avoid getting his hopes up, because Geralt of Rivia is clinically incapable of getting his head out of his ass, and it has nothing to do with being a Witcher.

So Jaskier numbs himself. Protects himself. He looks at Geralt like he doesn’t even see him and he prays to the gods it’s halfway believable.

“So, then. What do you want?” he asks again, his voice just a shade lower, just a breath less steady.

Geralt does something odd, then. He clears his throat, fiddles with his glass, and looks away.

When his eyes finally return to rest on Jaskier, full of something he cannot quite name, the bard feels his pulse race.

“Thank you,” Geralt says finally, awkward and impossibly soft around the edges. “For your help yesterday.”

Jaskier is still for a moment, then quietly nods to himself.

It’s the wrong thing to say, and Geralt knows it even before the bard points a finger at him and says, almost matter-of-factly: “Fuck _you_.”

For a second Geralt’s breath stops halfway through his lungs. There’s hurt in the bard’s voice, raw and aimless and drawing blood.

“Always good to know I’ve rendered you a service, O Mighty Witcher,” Jaskier spits, his usual sarcasm tinged with venom. “Please don’t let the shock hit you on your way out.”

Geralt just stares, trying to set aside the confusion and the hurt and finding he can’t. Jaskier’s eyes are covered by a thin, glassy veil, the faint presence alcohol in his system dilating his pupils: it’s enough to make him leave his filters at the door, but not nearly enough to make him delirious. Geralt has seen him drink five times what’s in his blood and compose songs face-down on the floor.

“You know what?” Jaskier says then, standing up. “Goodbye, Geralt.”

Geralt finds himself staring at an empty seat. He considers doing what Jaskier clearly asked him to do: get out of his sight and stay that way. Get back to his monster-hunting life. Set out at first light and ride, just him and Roach and silent, silent nights.

 _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take_ you _off my hands._

He considers it for the grand total of two seconds, and then he’s following the sound of heavy footsteps heading to the upper floor.

“Jaskier!” Geralt calls, catching sight of him ducking into a room down the corridor. “Fuck. Jaskier!”

A mirthless laugh greets him as he barges into the room. “Witcher, I swear to the gods, I am not in a mood to repeat myself.”

Geralt takes one look at the state of Jaskier and feels something break inside of him. The bard’s voice doesn’t sound nearly as steady as it had a few moments ago; his hands are shaking, slight and imperceptible; his eyes are filled with a pain so deep, so ancient, that it reflects back the weight of all the years Jaskier’s cheerful disposition usually cuts in half.

It deals the final blow, sends him shattering, and perhaps that’s finally the reason he can, at last, start picking up the pieces.

“Then don’t,” he replies, and Jaskier goes still at how soft Geralt’s voice sounds underneath it all. “Just listen.”

Jaskier isn’t in a listening mood, either. All he wants right now is to get as far away from possible from Geralt of fucking Rivia, put a tombstone over the past two decades of his life and move on. Or at least crumble in privacy.

“I’m sorry.”

Faint notes reach the room from downstairs.

“I’m sorry for everything,” Geralt repeats, taking one step towards him. “And I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner. I was… in a bad place,” he continues, and Jaskier rolls his eyes, because gods forbid the White Wolf admits having a _feeling_ out loud, “and I took it out on you.”

Jaskier isn’t saying anything. He’s looking at Geralt with unreadable eyes and the pinpricks of tears at their corners, something he’d doubtless prefer he didn’t notice. So Geralt pretends he doesn’t. For all of the bard’s jabs at his _stoic act_ , Jaskier conceals far more than he shows, and Geralt isn’t going to force him into openness. Not when Jaskier has never done that to him.

“And the only reason I could do that in the first place is…” Geralt shifts. This is all new to him, and it’s nothing short of a baptism by fire. But he knows, like an ancestral memory, that if he turns back now he’ll never get another chance to make things right. “Because you were there. You were there through it all, Jaskier, and I’ll always be glad for it.”

He doesn’t wait for Jaskier to reply. Geralt simply turns away, making for the door.

“Where are you going?”

Jaskier can be impressively fast when he wants to be. He’s in front of him in a few steps, standing between him and the open door. “So that’s it, then? You’re just going to leave?”

Geralt feels a tug, deep in his chest, as he looks one more time in Jaskier’s eyes. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I also realize that…” Jaskier’s heartbeat is distractingly loud – so the Witcher focuses on the music instead. “It’s better this way. For both of us.”

For a long time, Jaskier just stares at him, without saying anything.

Then he kicks the door shut.

“For the both of us?” he repeats, a bitter laugh in his fractured voice. “You just get to decide that? All on your own?” Geralt tries to avert his gaze, but Jaskier chases him down. “Again?”

That last word grates against his exposed nerves. Geralt feels the calm he’s fought to keep slip away. “What would you suggest?” he snaps, clenching his fists. “We go back to the way things were?”

Jaskier gives a wry smile. “Does that sound so bad to you?”

“That’s not the point,” Geralt sighs, exasperation seeping through his words. “There’s nothing for you with me. Here, instead,” he feels his voice soften enough to fray. “You could have everything. Songs and open road and…” he turns away now, because he cannot bear to look at Jaskier any longer. “Someone to share it with.”

He doesn’t expect Jaskier to laugh.

“Oh, is that what this is about?” he scoffs. “You’ve seen me sing one duet and now you’re marrying me off to live in bardic bliss forevermore? Without even bothering to ask for the damsel’s opinion, or mine, for that matter?”

Geralt grits his teeth. “True happiness is rare. You shouldn’t discard it lightly.”

“Hmm. Good thing I’ve never done, then.”

Silence stretches like a river between them, only broken by the echo of music.

“Also, in case you haven’t noticed,” Jaskier starts enumerating, “she is, a) a mage; b) been winking at the barmaid all night long; and c), gods forgive me, like a _sister_ to me. Something you should know, for a fact, I would never say lightly of a charming lady.”

Geralt blinks. He had not noticed any of that, truth be told. He’s particularly puzzled at the idea of having missed the obvious scent and glow of magic.

“And in case you get any weird ideas to matchmake me with the matron of the brothel down the street, I can make my own choices, thank you very much.” He’s regained enough composure by now to be able to fit snark between every two words instead of every three. “Honestly, Geralt, it’s been twenty-two years–”

“Yes, it has!” Geralt shouts, cutting him off. Jaskier stares at him, blinking in surprise.

He’s seen Geralt worked up before, but never quite like this. There’s an urgency in his gestures, a nervous twitching of muscles and a desperate edge to his voice that push Jaskier to search his golden gaze and hold it still.

“I’m not that old, you know,” Jaskier says tentatively. The Witcher sighs. He has no business being this perceptive. “I could push another forty. You must have noticed I’m the resilient type.”

Geralt shakes his head and tries to push past him.

Jaskier intercepts him. “Everybody dies, Geralt. And I think it’s pretty bold of you to assume I’m going before you, seeing as I’m not the one hunting monsters for a living.” He catches Geralt’s eyes and doesn’t let them go. “Is that a good reason to leave someone behind? So they don’t get to do the same to you?”

“Move, Jaskier.”

Geralt thinks of lonely days of travel, one after the other, the differences so slim they start to blend together. He thinks of endless nights staring at the sky and finding it provides no company.

He could have gone his whole life like this, he thinks. He could’ve.

“Is that what this whole thing has been about from the start?”

He thinks of Yennefer.

“I said move.”

“Make me.”

“Dammit, Jaskier! Can you just listen to me for once?!”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” Jaskier bites back. “Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, deaf in one ear and dumb in the other. When’s the last time _you_ listened to _me_?”

The Witcher tries to tune him out.

_Maybe someone out there will want you._

He puts a hand on the bard’s shoulder, firm and heavy.

_I’m just trying to work out what pleases me._

Jaskier grabs his wrist.

_We could head to the coast._

“I hate you, you know,” Jaskier whispers, anger rising back to his voice. “You go on and make yourself into the hero of some tragedy, without stopping to think long enough to realize you’re holding the pen.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums noncommittally, pulling his wrist free.

“Look at me, Geralt.”

Against all common sense, he does.

Jaskier stares holes into his eyes.

“What do you _want_?”

Something snaps inside of him, worn walls coming down all at once. He places one hand against Jaskier’s chest, shoves him up against the door, and closes the distance between them.

“I hate you,” Jaskier keeps murmuring between kisses. “Gods, I hate you,” he breathes as he fists a handful of Geralt’s hair and pulls him back in for more, more, _more_. Geralt buries his nose in the crook of Jaskier’s neck and fills his lungs with his scent. The bard gasps into his ear at the feeling of teeth sinking into his skin, grip growing stronger and a stream of profanities flowing from his mouth like a newly composed song.

The Witcher hears him mutter another _fuck_ between gritted teeth and then he’s pulled up, up, away from his throat and back to his lips. His own bottom lip splits under Jaskier’s onslaught; and he feels an animal grin paint itself across his face at the taste of blood on his tongue. When he pauses to catch his breath, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s, he locks their eyes together: there’s something feral in Jaskier’s gaze, something primal, like he wants to bite Geralt’s entire face right off his skull.

Geralt isn’t going to say no.

“Tell me again,” he whispers instead, hands traveling down to Jaskier’s hips and sliding under his shirt. Jaskier doesn’t break eye contact for one second, his heart thumping wildly as he notices the way the Witcher’s hands are shaking. It’s light, and guarded, and could almost pass off as his own impression.

Almost.

“I hate you,” he growls, slow and deliberate, pulling harder on his hair and relishing the sight of Geralt’s pupils growing wide. “I hate you, I hate you, I _hate_ you.”

Over the years, they developed an unspoken language for situations which gave them no time, or no way, to talk. It was made of meaningful glances and an instinct of prediction which allowed them to work in sync with each other: _I’ll kick this boulder, you run; I’m about to swing, so duck; I’ll distract them, you strike._

Jaskier looks at him, his arms wrapping around his neck, and Geralt needs no more prompting: he lifts him up, locking the bard in place between his body and the closed door.

“Gods,” Jaskier groans as their hips collide, legs hooked around Geralt’s waist and hot breath against his ear. “Fuck.”

The Witcher has one hand under his hips and the other splayed open against the wooden door. He tries his hardest to give them both the friction they need, rolling his hips into Jaskier and sighing as he feels him do the same, over and over again. It’s not nearly enough.

Geralt considers, briefly, the idea of moving them to the bed – and he would, if he could get two consecutive seconds of lucidity. But it means stopping, it means taking his mouth off of the soft skin of Jaskier’s neck, it means letting Jaskier out from under his body, and not a single part of him wants that. So he keeps tracking dark, possessive bruises along the bard’s collarbone, each sigh draining his sanity.

Suddenly, he feels one of Jaskier’s arms slide down from his shoulders and reach between their bodies, managing to force its way in despite how hard they’re pressed together. He fumbles at first, but for long; the bard’s fingers make quick work of their trousers and soon Geralt feels his touch on his skin with nothing else in between. He gives a long, low hiss against Jaskier’s ear, the bard’s fingers squeezing him hard and making him see stars.

“Fuck, Jaskier,” he pants, shooting the bard a look that would make his knees buckle if he weren’t pinned against a door. The Witcher’s eyes are glowing golden in the dim light, pupils blown and a look of unconditional acceptance that sends Jaskier’s blood rushing far, far away from his brain. There’s nothing he could do to Geralt right now that he wouldn’t take, nothing that would make his eyes lose that compliant, hungry light. He could move them to the bed, lay him down, bury himself in the heat of his body and watch as his pupils eat away at the golden rings of his irises; he could urge Geralt to fuck him, right then and there, taking him as deep as his body will allow and squeezing the breath out of him until he’s gasping for it. He could ride him slowly, on the floor, pin his wrists above his head knowing he would get no resistance, only the steady push of his hips inside him.

Gods, he wants to do that. He wants to do all of that.

Instead he feels the wet slick between his fingers spread, feels his own erection begging him for relief, and knows they’ll never make it one step away from the door.

Jaskier takes them both in his palm and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. Raw pleasure shoots down his spine as they slide against each other, in a perfect friction of skin and heat and everything he could possibly wish for.

“Look at me,” Jaskier says, his voice impossibly low and firm. “Geralt, look at me.”

Geralt calls upon every ounce of self-control he has left, and his gaze meets the blue expanse of Jaskier’s eyes.

The bard keeps him there, keeps him locked as his pace slows down to a torturous rhythm.

Jaskier will ruin him.

“What do you want?” Jaskier asks slowly, each syllable clear as day and taking forever. There’s obvious effort in his voice, raw and frayed as he tries to swallow down the noises coming from his throat.

It’s agony.

“I want to hear you,” Geralt finally answers, thrusting his hips upwards into Jaskier’s hand and against him.

Jaskier throws his head back, a moan escaping his lips. Then another. And another.

His voice bounces off the walls, echoing blissfully in Geralt’s ears, like a siren’s song. It grows louder and louder, all restraint melting off of it as Geralt plants open mouthed kisses and bites everywhere he can reach, rocking his hips to the rhythm of Jaskier’s hand.

And it dawns on him that _this_ – Jaskier spread out and devastated against him, Jaskier unraveling and devastating him – is the only thing he truly wants.

“I– Ahh…” Jaskier sighs, and Geralt crushes their mouths together in a ravenous kiss, swallowing down the rest of his noise.

They ride out their climax together, Jaskier’s fingers ripping away Geralt’s last shred of sanity.

They stay like this after, catching their breath against each other. Jaskier’s legs slowly slide down from the Witcher’s hips, so he can stand – or sway – on his own two feet.

“Still hate me?” Geralt asks in a low, labored breath.

He can hear Jaskier scoff against his ear. “Jury’s still out,” he pants half-heartedly, his arm still slung around the Witcher’s shoulders.

A few moments go by, the quiet returning to fill the empty space left by Jaskier’s voice. Geralt searches for his gaze.

“So…” he trails off. “Friends?”

Jaskier stills.

“I _cannot believe_ you’re choosing _now_ to finally _say that_!” he whines in defeat. The bard slides down against the door, hooking his fingers into Geralt’s collar in revenge, so that he will have to follow him on the floor.

Geralt doesn’t mind.

He isn’t going anywhere.


End file.
